Merlin's Shadow (30 page)

“Colvarth — I'm coming back.”

“I am
Colvarth
, yes, a criminal bard outlawed by the druidow. But I am more than that. I am Bledri, adopted son of the previous Chief Bard of the Mighty, Cadfan. I am a man with a heart and soul, and I have sworn my harp only to whom God chooses. I have sought
all my years since deciding to follow the Christ, and now that I have found you, I am loathe to let you go.”

“But —”

“I know. Go, thou son of this old, decrepit toadstool, and put your hope in God even as I do the same. Save Arthur and come back quickly, for you have much to learn.”

Merlin stood, awkwardly, and found Colvarth holding out the bag with the Sangraal.

“Take this,” he said. “I can neither see this holy thing nor touch it. Maybe God —”

“I don't want it,” Merlin said as he threw his cloak over his shoulders. After everything Colvarth had said, Merlin didn't want to dissappoint him, but his hand refused to obey.

“But!”

He didn't want it. The Sangraal was useless to him. He'd trusted it once to heal Natalenya, but it had failed.

“Please, take it,” Colvarth said, and he set the bag in Merlin's hands.

Merlin took it with a sigh and tied it to his belt. Then he gave a slight bow out of respect for Colvarth.

He grabbed his leather sack of provisions, which included the small bag of coins from Atle. Then he gathered the others and began his descent down the shaft. The last thing he saw was Natalenya laying on her pallet, with Colvarth standing nearby.

Merlin looked down, as he didn't want to slip. Bedwir had given him a light, and he knew the way now. He descended to the tunnel, passed the cell where Kensa had been imprisoned, and then stopped cold, halting the others.

The hallway
was
moving ahead — writhing just beyond the reaches of the light and his vision. He squinted. It couldn't be, and yet he knew the truth: Something was crawling on the walls, in and out of the cracks. He stepped forward and held up the light.

Roaches.

Thousands and thousands of them.

T
he spear in Troslam's hands quaked as the three men ran down the hill toward them. There was no time for him to stave in this last boat and get the girls far enough away from the archer. So he sliced its thin tie rope and pushed the boat away from the dock. He ran back to the girls, jumped in, and shoved off as hard as he could to give them some momentum.

Then he rowed — as fast as he could. Every stroke had to count. Every dip had to be perfect. Every pull had to propel the boat as far away from Vortigern as he could get. There was barely enough time.

The girls peeked over his shoulders.

“Get down!” he yelled, but that threw off his rhythm, and his left oar flailed uselessly. He swore. Any delay could mean their death, and so he quickly regained his balance and rowed strong and accurate once again.

“Is there anything I can do?” Eilyne asked.

“Pray.”

Vortigern had made the docks, and he pointed toward Troslam and the girls. One of the warriors took an anchor and tossed it, still holding on to the rope, into the boat Troslam had pushed away. The other slid an arrow from his quiver, aimed carefully, and shot.

The arrow went wide, zipping into the marsh about a foot from the boat.

Troslam rowed harder and turned the boat past some thick marsh reeds just as another arrow whizzed by. His only hope was to lose them in the maze of rushes. Why hadn't Troslam planned better? Why hadn't he moved the girls to a safe location long ago? What a dupe he'd been to think that Uther's girls would be safe in Bosventor.

He rowed desperately, following the channel in front of him — hoping beyond hope that he didn't come to a dead end and have to turn around.

At one point he had to use his oar to push a huge moss-covered log out of his way to pass by. A moment later — while the wind waved the marsh grasses to the side — he caught a glimpse of Vortigern and his men shoving off from shore and rowing toward them.

Unfortunately for Troslam, the other boat had two sets of oars — so row as he might, he couldn't keep Vortigern and his men from gaining. Worse, while Vortigern and the other warrior rowed, the archer sat up in the prow looking for a good shot.

The reeds rustled together in the cold wind even as Troslam's oars creaked and groaned in their sockets. He rowed harder, trying to keep low, when an arrow struck the side of the boat. The channel broadened before him, and eventually split.

He had just turned the boat down the left fork, heading south, when a rib-cracking pressure hit the right side of his back. Stabbing pain shot through his body and down his right arm. He lost control of his grip and the oar dropped away. He fell over, and the world spun white and hot. The very life breath was yanked from his screaming lungs like an unraveled cord.

Eilyne shouted and tried to help him sit up. She put the oar once again in his hand, and he felt a tugging at his back. But then she, too, cried out — a long, withering scream, soon matched by another beside her. Troslam fought against the whirlpool of agony that was sucking him down into darkness — and for a moment saw Myrgwen, shrieking and struggling, vainly trying to pull out an arrow lodged in her left eye as blood rushed from the wound. Eilyne had taken one in her side, and lay in the front of the boat, a silent scream on her trembling lips.

Vortigern shouted in triumph as he witnessed the third arrow strike true and the youngest of Uther's brats fall into the bottom of the boat. When the weaver had been hit, the girls foolishly tried to help him, making them easy targets for Tethion's arrows.

Now the only thing left was to row over and dump their bodies into the marsh, where the water would finish what he'd started.

He slipped his oars into the water once again, a broad smile on his face, and began rowing. Soon they came to an old trunk of a tree that had somehow floated in their way. Mosses clung to its surface and, strangely, it appeared the center of it had been burnt and hollowed out, maybe by lightning. He lifted his oar from its socket and gave the closest end a shove.

As it floated away, some bubbles rose from the dark water,
popped into the air, and then there was a strange noise, like a weasel or rat had begun to chew upon their boat. Vortigern looked into the water, but couldn't see anything.

Putting his oar back in its slot, he began to row once more — but then stopped. The chunking noise grew louder, and suddenly, between his very feet, a green trickle of water began to leak into the bottom of the boat. He tried to staunch it with his boot, when out from the small hole burst an orange-colored tongue, which began breaking and splintering the old wood of the boat. Then it disappeared only to appear again, this time longer.

Vortigern shouted, and again tried to beat the thing with his foot — only to realize too late that it was metal and he'd sliced his boot open. What he had thought was the tongue of some foul marsh beast was in fact a rusty sword blade. The cold water fountained into the boat, and he cried out to the others to turn back to shore. Vortigern swore, for he didn't know how to swim, and they had nothing to bail with.

They turned the boat awkwardly, and double rowed in double time back to the docks as the water poured in. But the blade was gone now, and Vortigern dared to plug the hole with his boot as best as he could, but could not stop the water entirely.

They made it back to the dock just as the boat's sides submerged into the icy water. Vortigern pulled himself up next to Tethion, dripping, cursing, and shivering. Rewan climbed out next, and they all stood and looked out into the marsh.

The weaver's boat was too far away to see.

And what of the brats? There were no other boats for him to take and finish the job. But did he need to? They'd each been struck deeply and accurately by Tethion's arrows. He'd seen it. They would die, if they weren't dead already. So what if he didn't throw ‘em into the marsh? The ravens would finish his job, and soon there'd be nothing left in the boat besides mute bones.

And maybe whatever spirit of the marsh had attacked them would sink the girls' boat with its rusty blade too. Vortigern laughed
as he squeezed the water from his tunic. He'd done his task, and he could go to Tregeagle's, change his clothes, and be on his horse headed east before nightfall.

Sure it'd be nice to sit at the man's fire, sip some of his excellent
Mulsum
wine, sleep the night under his roof, and head out again in the morning — but no. He couldn't risk being recognized here. It had been risky enough to come at all.

It would be a long way home, but after the journey, he could truly rest in his newly rebuilt feasting hall. His throne and the throne of his son had been secured at last — for revenge had been visited upon the enemies of his house.

Vortigern quickly changed his clothes in the side chamber of Tregeagle's house. And what a house it had become. The servants were all gone, the tapestries had been stolen or sold, and half of the fine furniture broken up to feed the hearthfire, which wasn't hot enough to keep his breath from icing up. The quicker he got out of here, the better.

And crazy ramblings had been charcoaled upon the walls.

Thankfully, Tregeagle had stepped out briefly so Vortigern could gape at them with the proper sneer. And one was in blood. Thick, dried blood, written in oversized letters.

Kill Merlin!

Merlin? He was a slave now, and probably dead already.

It was evident someone had tried to scrub away the ramblings and clean the house — perhaps Tregeagle's wife, Trevenna — but they'd been written over again just as many times.

Rewan had already finished changing, and Tethion came back with Fest, who snuffled a little like he had a cold.

“Where's Enison?” Vortigern whispered.

Tethion took a swig from his waterskin. “He's ah … not coming.”

Fest let out a groan.

Vortigern pulled his dry breeches on. “Taking his time, eh? Havin' a little —”

“He's dead.”

“Ehh. Stupid donkey.”

“Nah, the druid killed him. Fire came out of Enison's gut, and that was it.”

Vortigern snorted. There was only one way for him to fight the druid — with some power of his own. The problem was that Vortigern didn't have any. But what if he could make the Stone work … for himself? Merlin had pierced it with Uther's sword — could someone else pull it out?

And Tregeagle's mad scribblings had reminded Vortigern that the Stone could make gold. Six months ago he had more important things to think about. But he was the High King now, and he required plenty of gold. Perhaps it was worth a stop before riding out of the village.

Tregeagle came holding out an empty bag. “Gold … how much gold will you pay me?”

“How many coins will make you happy?” He hoped it wasn't more than two. He could afford one or two to keep the man quiet.

“Eight! Eight gold coins … four coins for each of Uth —”

Vortigern slammed his hand over Tregeagle's mouth. The man wanted eight coins? Was he mad? Didn't he know Vortigern needed gold to fight the Saxenow? But maybe there was a way out of this. “Let's go down to the Stone. I have something to show you.”

Tregeagle nodded, and his eyes brightened.

Vortigern slopped his wet clothes into a bag and then led everyone out, keeping his head down as he passed Trevenna and shuffling his feet a little. Mounting their horses, they rode down to the village green, where the villagers had moved the Stone.

And there it was upon the Rock of Judgment, which was a flat granite slab where Uther had sat before the people of Bosventor six months ago. But now
Vortigern
had the torc of a High King, his grandfather's torc — and that scheming Uther would lay dead in his cairn until the world ended.

Rewan slapped Vortigern in the back, breaking his reverie. “So what're we here for?”

“The Stone” was all Vortigern could say, for as he looked at its black surface, he felt his heart bend. Just a little. Feelings came back to him. Of glory. Of him riding in a chariot of victory rolling over the trampled bodies of his enemies. Of thousands upon thousands of warriors proclaiming,
“Vortigern! Vortigern! Vortigern! Ard-Righ! Ard-Righ! Vortigern —!”

He stepped forward and knelt before the Stone, caressing its dark, pock-marked surface. Here and there, a metallic hue shone through, dazzling his eyes in the fading sunset.

And the sword. Vortigern had ignored it six months ago. What had it been to him? A paltry thing given to Uther from a traitor who had sunk to be a blacksmith on a forsaken moor. It had been Uther's blade for those brief hours. At least until it had fallen into his own hands for the … the … He didn't want to linger on what he had done. And then somehow Merlin had gotten the weapon.

But even now the metal of the sword fairly gleamed before him. Oddly, no rust had marred its surface, and Vortigern touched the edge — deadly sharp. Its hilt had four inlays of red glass that glowed like blood. Uther's blood. Vortigern had shed it. Yes, he could say it. And why not? But the blade accused him of his act of … fury. Hadn't Mórganthu murdered Vortigern's sister? Didn't he have a right to kill Uther, whose own father had murdered Vortigern's grandfather?

The memory flashed before his eyes. Uther lay upon this very stone, tied up. Vortigern ran at him in rage, this very blade shaking in his fist. Uther had looked up at him … not with ire, but with pity. A pleading sort of pity as death from a friend approached and snuffed his life out.

Rot. The man deserved it.

Vortigern wanted to throw the sword away. Melt it down. Bend it as an offering to the god of some bog. In a rage he stood over it, grasped its handle, and pulled with all his strength. Anger fueled the fire of his grip as he sought to dislodge it. But no matter how hard he pulled, his boot upon the Stone; no matter how he tried to twist it or bend it, the blade wouldn't budge.

Foul! Foul curse that it was! Vortigern could not dislodge it.

Tethion and Fest simply stared.

Rewan shook his head. “Look at that.”

From the fissure where the sword entered the Stone, black liquid trickled down. Vortigern touched his finger to it, and it smelled like fetid eggs. Despite remembering his glimmer of glory, the Stone seemed dead on all accounts. At least he didn't have hope of getting any gold out of it himself.

Tregeagle looked at him with wide eyes. His empty bag still open before him. “They say only the High King can pull it out …”

“Who says?”

“The villagers. It's the High King's sword. Aren't you the High

King?”

“Me? Of course I am.”

“Then …”

“Ehh? Then they're wrong about the sword.” But this wasn't why he'd come. He'd lost control of himself. it was time for action. He took a deep breath, opened his money bag, felt carefully with his hands, and withdrew a large copper coin and a smaller gold coin — the gold coin carefully hidden underneath the copper.

“Here,” he said, regaining his composure. “I haven't pulled the sword … but the Stone spoke to me,” he lied. “It told me it'll turn
twenty copper coins into gold … for you, Tregeagle, as payment for helping me.”